


Five Times John Sheppard Won at Sports - and One Time He Lost

by valderys



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst, Community: mcshep_match, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-06
Updated: 2011-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-14 11:28:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/148782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valderys/pseuds/valderys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's always been times in John's life when he feels like he's losing, even when he wins. On Atlantis, it's even worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times John Sheppard Won at Sports - and One Time He Lost

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Team Play with the prompt of Grand Slam.

**_Grand Slam, n._**  
1\. The winning of all the tricks during the play of one hand in bridge and other whist-derived card games.  
2\. **Sports.** The winning of all the major competitions in a sport in a single year - especially associated with tennis, golf and rugby union.  
3\. **Baseball.** A home run hit when three runners are on base.

Year Zero

When John was sixteen he made a grand slam in the ninth inning with his Dad cheering him on. It was the last baseball game of the season and they'd been behind the home team, so the crowd had gone wild, and it had won them the game. But that isn't why John remembers it so clearly.

It was the sight of his Dad on his feet yelling for _John_ , throwing his hands in the air and cheering him home, that hot dusty day. He'd actually been proud of him. That was something special, in itself, but it meant even more because Dad hardly ever made it to any of John's games any more. He was always too busy, too late, too far away. He'd come when Mom was still alive, sure, but that was when John had been a little kid, and he could barely remember those victories. They didn't mean the same as this one did, and those memories didn't give him the same visceral joy, recalling the thrill of competition, the stretch of his muscles in all their youth and strength. John remembers being so _happy_ as he'd wiped the sweat out of his eyes, before jamming the baseball cap determinably back on, ready to slam another ball home.

Dad didn't lose it very often, either, whether it was roaring at John to move his butt as he pounded to home base and slid... Or whether it was the crack in his voice as he spat John's name later, his shock and disgust echoing hollowly around the tiles of the shower area, as John looked around in horror. His lips all pink and wet from Chet Janovsky's.

They never talked about it afterwards. John always thought they were going to, but they never did. And then it seemed like they were fighting all the time, and John joined the Air Force, and they ended up further apart than ever. So John always remembers the slide to home base that day, because he won the game alright, but he lost it too. Story of his life.

But he's glad he learned the lesson early on.

***

Year One

John’s played lots of games since then. Never did learn to lose gracefully, or play with his men’s lives with equanimity. That’s what makes him a good officer but a terrible commander. It didn’t matter on the ice, and mattered far too much in Afghanistan. In Pegasus, the jury’s out, so far. John knows he’s still only one up with all to play for in the last quarter. He wouldn’t bet on them though, he wouldn’t take those odds.

Which is why it's marvellous to him as he watches the children squeal and run and play rough with a crude leather oval ball, that he would swear looks like a football. The game’s different though, with rules that seem more suited to some kind of rugby, not that he’s an expert. But he laughs and runs with them anyway, and tries to explain his own favourite game. The kids don’t seem impressed, they don’t have the resources for the kind of equipment he’s describing, and John knows he’s babbling anyway, just honking with laughter, tucked into the midst of young bodies, their painted skin and braided hair everywhere he looks. He’s sure it should feel like it did when he was a boy, but it doesn’t somehow, it feels better. Maybe because the fresh outdoor grassy smell of the kids is miles away from the sweaty locker rooms he remembers.

Or maybe it’s because this is the first truly happy place he’s come across in the Pegasus galaxy. On M7G-677, the kids may all know they’ll die at twenty five, but they’re safe until then, and twenty five is a long way away when you're twelve – so they don’t have the haunted look you catch in the eyes of the Athosian children sometimes. Who’ve lost a brother, or a Mom, or a Dad. And now these kids won’t even die at twenty five, thanks to them, to Atlantis. They'll get to live. John likes it, that they’ve done a truly cool thing here, for once. It feels good.

He shamelessly uses his height and weight, not to mention experience, to win this rugby-like game for his team, teasing the ball out from the centre of the scrum, even with half a dozen screaming girls after a piece of him. He can't stop grinning.

Until he sees Rodney glowering at him, not from the touchline, oh no, because that would mean that he'd have to show he cared, but from under a tree, carefully away from the sun. John's smile falls from his face. Ok, maybe it wasn't such a great day for everyone. Rodney's been chewed a new one by Elizabeth, after all, and teased unmercifully by the kids, although John's surprised he's taken it to heart. Rodney's not usually bothered by stuff like that, surely?

He sniffs as John throws himself to the ground beside him. "Having fun, Major? Nice to see Atlantis can hold it's own in the teenage stakes. Were those girls aware that you're old enough to be their father? Or is the concept too alien to them?"

John leans his head back and stares up at the dappled leaves above him. His good mood is shot to hell now. The jealousy in Rodney's voice is unmistakeable, and John can't tell him that if he had any intention of tapping that, then Keras is more his type. Or Rodney himself, come to think of it.

He _doesn't_ let himself think about it. Rodney's on his team, and straight besides. But John's used to playing the game, so he throws on his sunglasses to hide his eyes and sidesteps the remark with a deflection. Tempts Rodney into a round of Prime-Not Prime instead and watches his lopsided smile shine.

Vicarious enjoyment is nearly as good, John's found. He can live with that, as long as they all _live_.

***

Year Two

"Umm," says John, his brain shorting out as Rodney jogs past him in sweats so old and thin they're practically transparent, where they're not actually all holes. He doesn't even want to think about how low they’re riding on his hips. Then there's the stripe of soft belly showing below the bottom of his t-shirt, with a scattering of dark hairs. It's a wonder that John hasn't walked into the wall. "Umm?" he tries again, as it finally catches up with him. Since when does Rodney _jog_?

"Oh, hi there, Colonel," says Rodney, brightly, and that's all wrong too, until John finally gets past his inappropriate reactions and onto the fact that this isn't Rodney at all, and he really should have remembered that oh, about thirty seconds ago.

"Cadman," he greets her warily, trying not to see her smirk. "Taking things out for a test drive, I see. Try not to scrape the fenders, and if you look under the hood, for god's sake, don't tell him."

"Nossir," says Cadman, her tone still mocking. Default setting for her. She's panting lightly, which means that Rodney's chest is heaving up and down. There's a trickle of sweat running down the side of his neck, which John shouldn't be finding such a turn-on. He really shouldn't even be looking, but he can't help himself - so it means that when Cadman offers him a game, he doesn't have the willpower to say no.

It turns out that Cadman's game of choice is tennis. "Since you don't tap-dance, do you, Colonel?" And while John's played most things, even several of Ford's stupid training games, tennis is not high up there on the list. He weighs the racket in his hand and considers it, while Rodney - Cadman smirks at him across the makeshift net. Maybe it makes them even, he thinks, before Cadman proves him wrong. He's having to work for it, harder than he'd expected, just slamming the ball back with no finesse, running across the court far too much while Cadman grins at him. He's going to lose, and he knows it, wryly acknowledging that Cadman's going to hold this over him for _all eternity_ when, unexpectedly, on match point, John manages to keep a ball in that he fully assumed would get volleyed past his ear. It wins him the game.

Then he's darting around to Cadman, who's on the floor clutching her leg.

"Lieutenant, report," he barks, aware that he's more upset than is warranted, but can't help himself, any more than he can help himself from running his hands over Rodney's calf, his shin, the warmth of his skin startling through the thin cloth. He smells the same too, that tang of bitterness and sweetness that's all mixed up in John's mind with Rodney, never mind who's doing the actual driving in there.

"Useless, unfit body, how does he even manage to... It's ok, sir, it was cramp. I just got cramp." Cadman is angry, John can see it in the downturn of Rodney's mouth, the hunch of his shoulders. He wants to soothe it away, he wants to rub the spasming muscles, dig into the tension and smooth it out. He wants to cuff Rodney lightly before gently cupping the bones of his skull.

He wants to bury his nose into Rodney's neck, and just breathe him in. He wants to bite down, to taste him, he wants Rodney all snippy and complaining, and to shut him up with his mouth. He wants to rut against...

He's fucked, is what he is. He's got it bad, worse than he'd thought. John knows that he's going to have to try and keep a kind of distance from now on, or he'll mess up. He won't be able to help himself. Traitorous thoughts run through his head, like - Cadman's really a girl, I could tell her I like her, make out that this might be my last chance to show her how I feel...

 _I could kiss him, and it would be ok._

He doesn't, of course. That way lies madness. Instead, he hands Cadman his water bottle and tells her to drink it all. Tells her to take it easy, because it isn't her body she's abusing, and she nods to acknowledge the rightness of that, shamefaced, but still with a twinkle, because that's Cadman for you.

It's bad all round, John thinks. Because he really hadn't noticed until now how strongly he actually feels. Maybe it's because he's been looking at Rodney in a whole new light today. Maybe it's because he misses him, like there's a great gaping hole in his chest, even though he's right there in the same body. Maybe... it's not just that. John's always been fantastic at suppressing this kind of stuff, but he's always sort of peripherally _known_ what it was he was suppressing before. But this? This thing for Rodney has kind of crept up on him. He's going to have to be a lot more careful from now on.

John looks up from his abstraction to see Cadman staring at him strangely. He realises that he's still holding Rodney's leg and snatches his hand away. At least he hadn't started stroking the skin or anything really incriminating. His heart is thumping hard, and there's misery tightly coiled in his guts, but it could be worse.

In the scheme of things, John counts that as some kind of a win.

***

Year 3

"Now, I could help you with that hook," says Rod, and puts his arms around him.

John freezes, which doesn't help his swing. More importantly, and dangerously, Rod can feel him do it, although John immediately realises that he's being paranoid. Everyone on Atlantis has figured out that he doesn't like to be touched, so presumably Rod's John is the same. So he's allowed to flinch, right?

It doesn't stop him worrying about it as Rod's hold lingers. Maybe this is just another tactic. Not that either of them have explicitly acknowledged that they're playing a different game, a subtle contest of one-upmanship, couched in a friendly round of golf. They're having to estimate the length of their drives, of course, but they still know who's winning. It isn't John.

As Rod tightens his grip, it's all John can do to not move, to stop himself running away. His body is bracketed by Rod's and the guy feels the same as Rodney might, as John has imagined Rodney would feel in a similar position. He's only human, and late at night, in the dark, with only his own hand for company, John's thought about... things. But this is so much better than that fleeting fantasy, this is really how Rodney would feel, if he was crowded up behind John, if it were actually his breath ghosting across John's neck. Fuck.

John shivers and curses his body's traitorous reactions, fighting his natural impulses - all of them; fight/flight, arousal, fear. It's stupid, because Rod isn't bothered. He's merely tightening John's grip on the club, and murmuring instructions in his ear, there's nothing wrong with that. But John knows his hands are clumsy, and the hairs on the backs of his arms are standing up. It makes him embarrassed. He's just glad the darkness of his tan makes it harder to see a blush. He just hopes to god he _isn't_ blushing.

He's so wrapped up in his own reactions, and his desperate attempts to seem normal, laid back even, that he's not paying the kind of attention he should to Rod. The first brush of his lips against John's neck goes almost unnoticed, it's so feather-light, so easy to be laughed off as an accident, a chance contact. John realises that he _should_ have reacted to it, but in fact it goes unremarked. Which is actually why the first time John is aware there's a problem is when Rod bends to lay his open mouth at the spot where John's t-shirt meets his skin, when Rod nips very gently, and then follows it with a hot wet swipe of his tongue.

John sucks in a long shivering breath, and drops the club. He doesn't mean to do it, but it's the best thing he could have done, it turns out, because it gives him a reason to move, to push himself away. Before his traitor legs turn him around, and his traitor arms wrap themselves round Rod's shoulders, and before he sticks his tongue rather desperately down Rod's throat.

But he's glad he hasn't, he'd have preferred to stab himself with a fork, rather than betray... Once he's not touching Rod any more, it's easier to stand hipshot, attempting a nonchalance he doesn't feel. He's a past master at it, an expert, so he's not sure his performance deserves Rod's cocked head and raised eyebrow, because he's better than that. Isn't he?

But at least Rod is a consummate people person, unlike Rodney, or so it seems to John - which is actually wrong in so many ways. So Rod only bows his head slightly in acknowledgement, although of what has John puzzled, and smiles.

"I'm sorry, John. I made a mistake. I thought, from your reactions, that you would welcome... But I can see that I was wrong. I hope I haven't offended you."

John lifts his arm to awkwardly rub at his neck. "Not a problem, these things happen."

All the time, actually, although mostly it's women, and even then he never sees it coming. It's funny, or perhaps not, because he's usually much more careful around guys. His skin is tingling, and he wants to touch the place Rod touched with his tongue. Instead, he hurriedly snatches his hand away.

Rod is looking remorseful, even guilty, and that's another thing that seems wrong on Rodney's face. "It was greedy of me, and foolish. Of course, it's Rodney that you..."

"No!" says John, quickly, "No, it's not. Whatever you were going to say. It's not. We're buddies, ok. Team mates. That's all."

Rod is studying him now, eyes narrowed, and for the first time, John can see Rodney in him, properly. It makes him catch his breath.

"Then I'm sorry again," says Rod, slowly, "If that really is the case. Because it's obvious your affection is strong, and it seems a pity that you both deny yourselves."

John manages a quick crack of laughter, and turns to look out over the ocean, so Rod can't see his eyes, to see how they are prickling - the sun is very strong today.

"Rodney's straight," says John, and he doesn't know where that comes from. He didn't mean to say it.

Rod takes a pace or two, to stand beside him. Shoulder to shoulder. "No, he isn't. Or, at least, that's not all he is. I should know."

John feels like he's on a precipice, ready to fall, and he's just teetering there on the thinnest of knife edges. It's not a comfortable feeling. "It doesn't matter," he whispers, "I can't..."

"Yes, you can," says Rod, his quiet confidence almost overwhelming, "I did. And it was wonderful. I'm going to miss my John more than I can possibly say." He shrugs, and sighs heavily, stretching out his fingers to the sun. "That's why I regret that I... forgot myself with you. It wasn't fair. You're not John, not my John. I was clinging on to someone familiar, who isn't mine to presume upon. I must start moving on, however hard that will be."

"Yeah, well," says John, "It's early days."

He can feel when Rod shifts beside him, probably turning to look at him, but John stays where he is, staring out to sea. He's been too ambiguous, why has been so ambiguous? He can't turn and look, because he feels that if he looks, then Rod might touch, and if he touches then John won't be able to resist any more.

Suddenly there's a hand on his arm, and John tries not to jump, but it's not initiating anything, not an invitation. Rod's being comforting, John supposes. He should be comforting Rod, not the other way around. After all, it's not _John_ who's lost his entire fucking universe.

"Let's finish the game," says Rod, at last, and they do.

In the end, John racks up the most yards, as they continue driving until there are no more balls left. Until his shoulders and wrists are burning, until the sweat is running into his eyes. Rod chats away cheerfully enough, and he doesn't seem to expect much back from John. He doesn't touch him again either, and John's grateful for that.

But he still can't get away from the feeling that Rod has somehow let him win.

***

Year 4

"Son of a bitch!" John shouts when he sees his doppelganger, before throwing himself at him bodily, he's so mad, with grief, with anger. They end up falling through the wall somehow, but John isn't about to worry about that - they're in his own sub-conscious, for fuck's sake. He's not going to be surprised by anything here.

He changes his mind when instead of falling through into a different part of Atlantis, they end up in a really familiar timber frame mansion, inside an even more familiar games room. They're holding cards, sat next to one another, glaring across the green baize corner of the table. John's about to swear a blue streak when his Dad holds up a finger, where he sits directly across from him, and John subsides, like he always did, like he knows he has to. On his other side Dave smirks at him, and that's terribly familiar too.

"Yeah, shut up, John," sneers the entity, "You're not the boss here."

John glowers sullenly, hating it, loathing the feeling of teenage stubbornness and despair washing over him, but helpless to avoid it. He can't think about it properly though, can't bear to, he's all emotional overreaction in this body, and it exacerbates his desolation. Rodney is _dead_. The plan didn't work, and these are the consequences - that John has killed his best friend. That John has killed the man who means the most to him in the whole world - and that’s something he’s never admitting to anyone except in the depths of his subconscious. More than that, it means that John has managed to get Rodney killed before he can tell him, before he can risk...

It makes John want to growl, to smash his own stupid grinning face into a wall. His one consolation in all this, and it’s a small one, is that the entity is growing younger as he is, into spots and skinniness and bad hair cuts. It seems to have to follow the rules here as well, at least superficially.

John stares down at his cards, because he can't bear to look at basically _himself_ any more, knowing what he’s done. And then realises that they're playing bridge, which he was never much good at, and certainly not when he's this angry. Although as he automatically considers what hand he's got, he realises he could go as high as four spades, if Dad will let him run with it, and since he seems stuck here in this dumb fantasy, he calls it. He really wants to pound the entity into the middle of next week, for forcing him to kill Rodney, for poor Kate Heightmeyer, for endangering all his people, but he'll have to do it with card games, apparently. He throws the king of diamonds down like it's a weapon, and starts.

It's a grand slam. As John throws down his last card, to win the final trick, he has an ugly sense of satisfaction. It's not quite the entity's blood spraying from its broken nose, but it's something. In fact, it's a something that just about covers up the keening sense of loss that John isn't letting himself think about. Failing to win the game seems to be getting the entity just as angry as John is though, and that's good. That's fantastic. Maybe it'll lose control that way, and maybe that's how John can beat it.

So he's prepared when the creature throws itself at him, across the table this time, scattering the cards like confetti. John manages to deflect the headlong charge enough to send them bouncing through another wall, their hands locked around each other's necks, and when he looks up to see Atlantis again, he knows he must be getting to the thing. Until he realises where they are.

The basement where he and Rodney played their Game is dank and dirty. Neither of them could be bothered to clean it up, John remembers, excepting the bare essentials, so there are torn wrappings from MREs in the corner, and plastic bottles against the wall. The entity is abruptly kicking at one while John orientates himself, before perspectives shift again and John is staring at himself over the top of the monitor. The creature bares its teeth as it sends in its troops towards John's in a futile all out war.

"You can't stop me," it says, "You kill everything you love, you're pathetic, and you'll die just like Rodney died, squealing like a pig."

"Yeah? I don't see you exactly beating me here," says John as he rallies the armies of Hallona to defend themselves, while a small piece of him is screaming at the image the creature has managed to put into his mind.

The entity grins avidly. "Maybe not, but you can't protect them, can you? Rodney cared about them, but they'll die just like Rodney died."

John wants to protect Geldar, he does, but their troops are throwing themselves suicidally onto Hallona's more armoured forces, and John can't stop them. He tries to order Hallona's retreat, but they stop obeying his orders as they continue to slaughter their enemies, little cursor lights blinking out one by one by one. He slams his hand down on the console and the entity laughs.

"I told you - everybody dies around you. You're poison. You're tainted. There's a reason why it's you always you who gets infected. Who gets taken over. It's only kind calling to kind, John. Really, you're just like _me_."

John knows the creature is stronger than he is. He knows that however much he wants to feel its windpipe crushing under his thumbs, it's a stupid idea. But he can't help himself.

"I'm nothing like you!" he roars, and charges the entity again, throwing them both through yet another wall to land in the gateroom.

Then it's the stand up, knock down fight that John's been spoiling for all along - and he's not wrong, he's not underestimated his opponent at all. He gets the crap beaten out of him, just like he suspected. But it's just what he deserves, it's his fault he got Rodney killed, so it's fair enough. John keeps dragging himself to his feet because it's what he does, but there comes a time...

"Get up. Come on, John. _Fight_!"

"No," says John, weary and hurting, but not enough, "That's what you want."

"It's your fault Heightmeyer's dead. Your fault McKay is dead." The entity is gloating now, jeering. John wonders dully when it learned that, whether it had the ability all along, or if it learned it from John's mind.

"I'm not dead," says Rodney.

There's a kind of white-out then, in John's mind, like when he crashes off his board and the waves are all around him, tumbling him over and over, and there's water in his ears. Stuff happens but it may as well be a million miles away for all the attention John can pay. He watches Rodney's mouth move, and then he sees the entity spasm as electricity arcs through it. It's weakened, John knows, can tell somehow, and he lumbers to his feet and staggers over. The creature's fallen to its knees now and it's easy for John to take it by the jacket, swing it around for momentum, and then throw it through the event horizon of the open gate. Just like that.

His ears are ringing, as though with the aftermath of an incredibly loud noise, or how it sounds just before he passes out. John hopes that's not the problem though, he really does. He so wants to stay conscious right now.

He staggers towards Rodney, who's looking at him with huge eyes, the way he gets when he's anxious, and they're so big and blue, John just wants to drown in them, throw himself in like they're the ocean, and he's on the sweetest wave in the world. Rodney's mouth has slipped sideways, of course, and as John watches, Rodney wets his lips with the very tip of a pink tongue. John would groan at that, if he were capable. If he could hear anything above the whining noise in his ears. But even so overcome, he can still appreciate the breadth of Rodney's shoulders; he likes the fact that they are just a little rounded, and the way he hunches even more when he's worried or unsure. The way they make John feel. He wants to reach over and straighten Rodney up, hold him and let him know he's got nothing to be ashamed about. He wants to tell him that John is so proud of him, so much so that it fizzes inside him like soda pop. He wants to cuff him to death, because how dare Rodney come back here and put himself in danger again, since it turns out that he's not _actually dead_.

"Which one are you?" Rodney asks, nervously, as John stalks towards him, or tries to at least.

"Me," says John, his voice is low and deep, rough with four years worth of frustration, four years of denial, and longing, and yet still one year more of Katie Brown simpering, while Rodney turns into a different person.

"Good you or bad you?" Rodney's brow stays furrowed, but less than it was, because he must know in his heart of hearts that it's John, not the entity, because he knows John inside out too. All the team nights, and the Game, and the saving each other's lives. All that beer drunk out on the pier - how can he not know?

" _Me_ , me," says John, dangerously.

How can Rodney not know how John feels? John can't stand it any more. He should, of course. He should hold off, be a good buddy, and save his career all at the same time. But he's tired, dammit. Exhausted to the bone. And Rodney was _dead_.

John keeps walking, even when Rodney begins to nervously back up. He doesn't stop even when Rodney starts to protest, his hands waving in front of him - it makes John want to grab them and put them to some good use, actually, but even that thought doesn't stop him. He's walking forward as inexorably as the tide, or like a rock meeting a hard place. Rodney has nowhere to go.

John only even slows down when Rodney's back meets the wall, and he has to stop back-peddling with something like a squeak. It makes John smile, and Rodney smiles back, uncertainly, sloping, and something in John's chest leaps at the sight. They're in his mind, in his dreams, after all. He's allowed a little leeway, right? A few fantasies. Rodney had a giant whale, and John has... this.

He brackets Rodney's body with his arms, careful not to touch him, because if he does, John can't promise that he'll be able to stop himself, and then leans in, knowing Rodney can push his way out, if he wants to - there's plenty of space. He wants Rodney, so goddam much, but willing, warm and making those eager noises he makes over chocolate muffins, or blue jello. This might be the only time he ever gets to have this though, even this much, and John doesn't want to waste it, but he doesn't want to poison things between them either, he's not quite that desperate. He thinks he can get away with claiming amnesia after the whole electric shock thing though. Maybe it will turn into just one more thing that they never speak of again, like that time with the feathers on M2M-754, or the incident with the headdress on P4X-897.

But Rodney's looking confused, not scared, John's pretty sure, and that's good, that's more than good, that's as much as he can hope for, and so he carries on, he wants this too much to take that crucial step back, to hold it all in any more. Rodney was _dead_ , and John's hands are shaking, and the coolness of the pillar feels nice against his palms, and he's still leaning forward, he's not going to stop...

Rodney's lips are warm under his, soft and yielding, but with a tiny hint of stubble that scratches at the corner of John's mouth. Just that is enough to drive him wild. It's just like he imagined in all his feverish guilty thoughts late at night, only better because it feels real - they fit together just as perfectly as John has ever dreamed. Yeah, well, they are in his fantasy after all, John supposes, even as he finds himself making this kind of groaning noise and opening his mouth, just a little, just for a taste, and pushing a bit closer. He licks at Rodney's bottom lip, full and perfect, and opening under the delicate pressure of his tongue. John doesn't think about it, he stops thinking really, instead he pushes inside, hungry to chase that essential Rodney-ness, that hint of the sweet and the bitter, and the kiss becomes harder and more messy. John finds he's digging his fingernails into the solid metal of the wall, in order not to do anything he shouldn't, nothing beyond the point of no return.

Then there is more sensation, beyond the luscious feel of Rodney's mouth. There is the creep of fingers against fabric, a tickle that makes John want to shift, to move into it, to encourage the hands that are making their way around his sides, his back. And then, abruptly, as though a dam is breaking, those hands are yanking at his t-shirt and grabbing at actual skin. The shock is intense, John hadn't realised quite how skin hungry he's got, how much he's missed touch. He doesn't notice the absence of human contact most of the time, he has his sparring with Ronan and the marines, he has the forehead touch thing with Teyla. It's enough, usually. He hadn't realised that just the feel of Rodney's fingers on his back would have him instantly rock hard, the seam of his BDUs pushing at him uncomfortably. He hadn't really thought that Rodney would... kiss him back. He hasn't let himself think about what it might all mean. He doesn't know what to do.

No, he's fooling himself. This is a luxury. This is a waking dream in the depths of his sub-conscious, this isn't real. It might be one of the hardest things he's ever had to do, but John pulls himself back from Rodney's mouth, although not far. Rodney is plastered up against him, like an octopus, far closer than John remembers him being at the beginning of the kiss, and it dazes him, losing himself like this, in the sensation of Rodney's mouth, of his body, strong and hard against his own. Rodney is pink from kissing, and from beard burn, flustered and completely delicious. At the thought of giving this up, John feels as though he's been punched in the gut. And it isn't fair, because it was never his to begin with, this is just his selfishness talking, and he's stronger than that - he's got to be.

"What?" Rodney demands, as John stares at him, "Enough with the soulful glances and get with the program already." Then his eyes get huge again. "Oh god, you're the entity, after all. Aren't you? Not Sheppard at all. John would never... Oh. Oh fuck. What was I thinking?"

Rodney tries to back-pedal frantically, and John is trying to make sense of this, but it's difficult, he seems to be moving too slowly, like wading through treacle, and all he knows is that Rodney is fighting him, so he instinctively holds on. He licks his lips and tastes Rodney on them, and that's what does it, what brings it home to him suddenly, like a bullet to a very stupid brain. This is real, this is actually Rodney in front of him, and he was kissing back. He was _kissing back_.

"No, woah, hang on, buddy. It is me. It’s really me!" says John, trying to get through Rodney's panic. "I'm sorry. I took advantage. It's my fault. It won't happen again."

"What?" asks Rodney again, but he's relaxing, infinitesimally, and looking wounded, but not scared, not any more. "It better be you. And you better be joking. Do you know how long I've wanted to _do_ that?"

John stares at him, shocked. Of all the possible responses, it was down at the bottom of the list, somewhere under number 43: 'How do you spell court martial, Colonel?' He's gaping like a fish, he thinks, but he can't stop, he can't process. He watches as Rodney draws himself up in all his arrogance, gathering his confidence, which John knows is shaky, but it makes him admire Rodney all the more.

"Unless, of course, this really _is_ some kind of joke..." John shakes his head furiously, even as Rodney carries on, "Then it basically explains the lack of hot girls in here. Huh. Who knew?"

John nods dumbly this time, frantically, like one of those nodding dogs, wishing he could be more articulate, but knowing that all the forces of his _life_ have shaped him into the man he is today. The man who's just got to kiss Rodney McKay, but who also can't talk about it if his life depended on it.

He clears his throat then, hideously aware of his own shortcomings, but determined to try. He can almost feel the ghost of Rod's hand clapping him on the back, his proud satisfaction urging him on.

"So, just theoretically, when we get back to Atlantis proper, when they wake us up..." John stops, at a loss how to carry on, but wanting to so much. "If we were to... remember stuff, it'd be ok?"

Rodney's looking at him in a pitying way, as though he's a bear of little brain, but John's used to that, it makes him feel better somehow.

"And if I happened to let myself into your room to, umm, clean my clubs - or something - it'd be ok? Right?" John wants to be clear, because what he's saying is important, clarity is _important_.

Rodney is staring back at him quite hard, it makes John want to squirm. It makes him want to run away, actually. He wonders if Rodney realises how much effort it's taking just to stand here. The sense memory of Rodney's lips on his is the only thing keeping his backbone straight right about now.

"Clean your clubs?" says Rodney, at last, in a voice of disbelief and possible outrage.

"Or something?" says John, a little desperately.

And then it's funny, it's weird, because Rodney's slightly pink-cheeked affront just sort of melts and changes into an overwhelming fondness before John's eyes, like one of those magic-eye pictures, that you need to look at just right. It makes John's stomach feel funny all of a sudden, and his heart thumps.

"Come here," says Rodney finally, calmly, "And we'll _clean your clubs_ together."

He holds his arms out wide, and John hesitates, because he wouldn't be John if he didn't hesitate at something so hugely monumental.

But then he goes.

And the world doesn't end.

***

Year 5

"...And your mother dresses you funny!"

"Well, you drive like a girl!"

"Women drivers have better safety records, so really, that's hardly much of an insult, John."

"Safety isn't going to get you anywhere - you need speed on a track like this, just like my baby here."

"And I'll tell Teyla that you said women are terrible drivers!"

"Teyla can't drive. Umm. But don't tell her, she might... get upset.”

“She’ll kick your ass, you mean.”

“Do you _want_ me to ask Ronon to refresh your field skills?”

John glances over to Rodney, once, twice, just casually, as they bicker, as they amble over to the starting line, each one cradling his toy car. John's is red - because everyone knows red 'uns go faster - and Rodney's is yellow because it's Madison's favourite colour, and she helped him pick it out. He thinks he's being subtle, does John, but when Rodney catches him looking and raises his chin in a defiant sort of a way, it only makes John go all warm and gooey inside, which he's sure can be seen in his insanely sappy smile.

But that's the difference, right there, John thinks. He doesn't _care_. Well, he cares, of course he does, but he doesn't _care-care_. He's a bigger man than that now. He's all grown up. He can even be sentimental.

They line up the cars and John narrows his eyes as he assesses the section of corridor that will be their track for the rest of the morning. That final turn's going to be a bitch, but they've each been practicing for this, or, at least, John has - sneaky circuits around the pillars at the end of his morning run. And Rodney's been especially secretive recently, and John has been manfully trying not to ask.

They still have Sundays on Atlantis, but they're different now. In one way the edge of memory and regret has been worn off with repetition and the new Carson's sunny smile. But in another, John has all these amazing new memories laid down - like kicking Rodney in the shins to get him from hogging the covers, or propping his chin on one wide, faintly freckled shoulder to read. He can go out on a mission with Rodney and then come home to him too, to bitch and moan about it comfortably together before sharing the shower, before leaning into water warm skin and just letting go. Things like that are amazing, John's found. He's not sure he ever knew that before.

So they have Sundays, and this particular Sunday they're racing toy cars, because why not? Racing beautiful radio-controlled model vehicles because it's fun, nothing more, and John loves that they have this. John loves a lot of things. He can even admit it aloud sometimes, in the dark. When he thinks Rodney's asleep.

So when the pair of cars race off into the dim slanted light the two of them follow with catcalls and whoops, like they're boys again, John thinks, except he knows that his boyhood was quite different from this and he suspects Rodney's was too. It makes these times more precious.

It also means that when John could crash his car into Rodney's and thereby gain the lead, he hesitates for a fatal second. The yellow beast races ahead and Rodney's voice is hoarse with excitement as he cheers it home. And afterwards John leans against the wall at his laconic best. He's sarcastic about Rodney's driving, and his technique, and his unpleasant habit of gloating in victory, but it doesn't actually matter at all that John's lost, because he gets to put his arm around the winner and reel him in for a triumphant kiss. He'll get to take out his feelings on the victor's body later too.

Maybe it is sappy, but John thinks he's won in every way that counts.


End file.
